Come Into My Sleep
by SiriuslyCrazyMav
Summary: ONE SHOT. Sherlock and Molly. Post The Final Problem. What happened to Sherlock and Molly that night, after Sherlock saved John and his sister. "Take your accusations, your limitations and toss them into the ocean blue, and come into my sleep". PLEASE review and recommend!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

The Final Problem from Season 4 has somehow entered into my bloodstream and I can't shake it off. So here's an attempt to give myself some closure.

Please excuse any typos you find in there!

Reviews and comments are MORE than welcome!

I do not own any aspect of Sherlock (If I did, Sherlolly would've happened a while ago…)

Lyrics taken from Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds "Come Into My Sleep".

Enjoy! 

-Mav

 _Vivisection_.

The practice of performing operations on live animals for the purpose of experimentation or scientific research.

As Molly Hooper stared down at her phone, tears streaming down her face, she found the word pinging around her brain with a life of its own. The phone had disconnected, the screen reflecting the conversation with Sherlock that had lasted less than 3 minutes but seemed to have lasted a lifetime.

 _I love you_.

The cup of tea she'd been preparing seemed somehow unappetizing now. It was always the best remedy after a long day, a steam, black cup of tea that always rejuvenated her. And after a sixteen-hour shift at Bart's, most of them spent looking through a microscope, she felt stumped by the cause of death of one of the cadavers brought to her by Scotland Yard. She'd been working sixteen-hour days for the past month, using her weekends to catch up on paperwork instead of rest. She knew it was going to catch up with her eventually, but Molly didn't mind.

She threw herself on her overstuffed sofa, cradling her forehead in her hand as the tears refused to stop flowing. She'd been feeling trapped, moving in molasses. She'd thrown herself into her work, hoping it would absorb everything, cocooning her in blissful ignorance. She had believed if she kept herself busy enough, she wouldn't have to deal with whatever emotions Mary's untimely death drudged up. She spent as much time as she could bear with little Rosie, and always offered to watch her when John needed a sitter. But the sadness never left her soul; Mary's loss had taken its toll on her. She felt herself becoming darker, smiling less, slower to amusement, quick to fake her good moods.

And then Sherlock had started using again, breaking her heart. When she'd done a physical on him a few weeks ago in the ambulance, she had been struck by how fast he was deteriorating. But he didn't want to be helped, and she had known it was futile to try to talk him back into sobriety. And frankly, she was tired of it.

Tired of being used. Tired of screaming and not being heard. Tired of giving and giving and giving…until nothing was left. But what drained her the most was the fact that she would never refuse anyone anything. Incapable of letting anyone down.

For the most part, overloading on work had been effective. She left for work early, got home late, too exhausted to do anything but watch a few hours of bad telly with a cup of tea for company, and fall into exhausted, dreamless slumber. It also gave her a good excuse not to return calls or texts, an excuse for why she didn't want to be needed by anyone outside work. She only regularly checked John's texts or calls, in case Rosie needed her. Other than that…

But today...today had been rough. The pressure of nailing the diagnoses taking its toll on her. She was in a bad mood, resolved to spend the rest of her day sulking when she'd gotten home, only to realize that it had been exactly 4 weeks since Mary had died. It probably added to her mood.

Then _he'd_ called.

Whatever complicated feelings she harbored for Sherlock Holmes exhausted her the most. She knew that despite everything he had put her through, despite everything she was willing to go through for him, despite how much she loved him…he was bad for her. He was killing her slowly.

That call…being forced to say "I love you" …to him.

Vivisection.

She was his favorite lab rat. The world's only consulting detective, who refused to allow himself to understand human emotion, used her to understand what those emotions were. He injected her with feelings and watched her reactions, watched how she processed them. With Sherlock, she knew what a lab rat's life was like.

He'd never been so cruel. But he'd said those words to her…the first time he'd said she had heard such desperation in his voice. The second time…realization.

Her heart thundered, feeling nauseous as she heard his voice in her head…that deep, incredible voice that reverberated through her entire body. But she didn't let herself believe that he'd meant it…that he loved her.

She was rudely pulled from deep sleep, her heart racing as her eyes flipped open in her darkened room. She laid still in her bed and took stock of her surroundings. She was on her stomach, face stuffed into her pillow as normal. Her flat was dark, and there was no sound, nothing seemed to have changed…then what had woke her up?

She heard movement again, coming from the darkest corner of the room. She sat up straight, nearly falling off the bed as her legs tangled in the sheets. Panic filled her mind, her heart racing as her eyes traced a tall, dark figure in the corner, seemingly watching her. She could hear herself muttering "oh God oh God" as she reached for her phone.

"Molly, it's me," and the shadow took a step forward.

Curses left her lips on a breath and she nearly passed out from relief when she saw it was Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he came further into the light that filtered through the window from the street below.

"Coming into someone's bedroom in the middle of the night is the perfect way to startle a person," her voice was shaking, "it is exactly the opposite of trying not to startle someone."

"I…" he scrubbed his face with his hands, running them through his hair in a gesture she had come to know as a signal of his frustration. He was wearing his signature coat over a blue suit, no scarf. She had spent enough time with him over the years that she looked down at his pants and shoes, seeing the mud and dirt that caked them. His coat was wet. But more than that, his face…she had never seen him like this. It had been only days, weeks at the most, since she'd last seen him but he had aged decades since then. Lines of strain marked his gorgeous face, his jaw holding tension, his entire body a white knuckle of stress.

"What's wrong?" she nearly fell out of her bed, her legs still tangled in the sheets. When she got to him, she wasn't sure what she had intended to. If he was a normal person, she would've wrapped her arms around him and absorbed the stress in his muscles and bones. But this was Sherlock, so she changed her trajectory and flipped on the lights. "What's happened?" she insisted, wrapping her arms around herself to keep from reaching to him.

She had seen him upset before, when he had confided in her that he was going to die. She'd seen him overdosing on the drugs he poisoned himself with. She had even seen him heartbroken for John Watson's loss, mourning Mary with the rest of them. But she had never see him this dejected, this…broken. There was a dullness in his pale eyes that shattered her heart.

"Molly…" his voice quivered and he looked away from her, down at his shoes. "I…" but he broke off again, and she saw tear streaming down those exquisite cheekbones. He drew in a deep, shuttering breath, he tried again but words failed him. She saw his fingers flexing, frustration evident as he swallowed against whatever emotions were assaulting him, his Adam's apple bobbing. The impossible sadness in his face…

And she realized what he needed. What Sherlock needed in that moment, why had he broken into her apartment. Her emotionless detective, the man who refused to engage in human emotion needed her to hold him. "Oh God," she moaned and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight against her. He didn't move at first, his arms at his side. Her own tears streamed down at her face, her fingers stroking his hair as she held him tight against her, wondering if he would push her away, wondering what had caused such grief.

Then his entire body shuttered, a great quake that caused every muscle in him to quiver. He let out a breath that sounded like a restrained sob, and as if the sigh had released some inner mechanism, his arms wrapped around her, holding her as tightly as she held him. He buried his face in her throat, the wetness of her tears marking her skin as she continued stroking his hair, knowing that in that moment, she would do anything to take his pain away. Sherlock held her so tightly, their body crushed together so completely that she knew he had stopped breathing.

She didn't mind, didn't protest. Even if he suffocated her, she wouldn't move.

But then he let out a breath and wept so openly, so wretchedly that it wracked his body. He was too heavy for her to him up she so they sunk to the floor, and she let her Sherlock cry, kissing him and petting him as wave after wave of sorrow crippled the inner workings that had made him a machine.

She didn't realize it, and didn't even hear it herself but Sherlock heard her, and absorbed her as she whispered, "my love, my heart," into his ear, her fingers tangled in his damp hair.

Molly had managed to drag him into her bed, refusing to let them sleep on the floor only feet away from an actual bed. He had been dazed, his exhausted body heavy from both physical and mental exhaustion. Whatever had happened had been colossal, but she didn't need to know what it was. She had stripped him down to his shorts, throwing his soiled clothing into the wash. When she'd moved to sleep on the sofa in the living room, his rough voice had stopped her, his hand extended to her.

"Stay with me," was all he had had to say.

And she had.

She woke up on her side, wrapped tightly in Sherlock's arms, his body a warmth against her back. She turned her head slightly to glance at his sleeping face. Even in slumber he frowned, tears streaking his cheeks. She'd woken up a few times during the night to hear his hitched breath, crying in his sleep. But the way he held her, it was as if he had no intention of ever letting her go. He had even thrown his leg over hers in such a way that if she tried to move, she would trip instead.

She reached for her phone as quietly as she could but his sleep roughened voice was in her ear, "where are you going?" he demanded.

Molly reached behind her, stroking his cheek, "nowhere, just reaching for my phone to tell work I won't be in."

He made a humming sound and fell back asleep. She stayed awake though, stroking his arms as she watched the impossibly gray sky outside. She was dying to know what had happened, why he had called her asked her to tell him she loved him…but she was too shocked to care at that moment.

A part of her had always known that he was human, obviously. Molly also knew that she wasn't the smartest or cleverest person around, as was evident by the man that slept beside her. But she was smart, to say the least…she knew that it wasn't that Sherlock was incapable of human emotions, just that he never understood their value or necessity. A while back, she had realized that in fact his emotions were too strong, too human. If he let himself feel at all, he felt more than normal.

Time with him had also assured her that he was always in complete control, that a slip from him would be impossible, to say the least. Miraculous. And she had never considered herself significant enough to witness, if he ever did, in fact, slip. John Watson yes, he would be privy to that but Molly?

Around 10AM she tried to leave the bed. She was wide awake, had been for hours. And although she loved sleeping next to Sherlock, feeling the warmth of his body surround hers, his breath on the back of her neck and shoulders, she knew that she was getting restless and would fidget around enough to wake him up.

As soon as she slipped out of his arms though, his pale eyes had opened, wide in a panic that she didn't understand, "where are you going?" he had demanded.

"L-living room," she had stuttered, trying to understand why he was so terrified at the thought of her leaving the bed.

"Stay," he had commanded and she nodded. Slipping back in the bed, she compromised by sitting instead, resigning herself to reading while he slept. Sherlock heaved his body up, his long, toned arms wrapping around her waist, burying his head in her lap, and he fell back asleep.

Recovering from the shock, unable to understand, to fathom that this was Sherlock Holmes, she let her hand drift down his naked back, frowning at the bruises she founded there. With her right arm she stroked him, playing with his hair, rubbing the muscles between his shoulders with her thumb, twirling his curls around her fingers while she held a book in the other hand. And although she read every page, she didn't understand, too dazed by what was happening.

She had just started snoozing, around noon, when a text alert from John Watson buzzed her phone.

 _Is SH with you?_

 _-JW_

 _Yes._

 _He's sleeping._

 _What's happened?_

 _-M_

But Watson never responded.

Around two in the afternoon, Sherlock finally stirred. Molly had given up on reading at that point, resting the open book against her chest as she snoozed, with Sherlock's head still in her lap. But her eyes opened wide when she felt him get off her, the loss of his comforting weight startling her from the light sleep she'd fallen into. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back towards her, holding his head in his hands.

"You alright?" she asked quietly, her fingers lightly touching his back.

He turned to face her then, the sadness still lingering in the corners of his eyes as he took her hand in his, stroking his thumb over her wrist, "getting there," he said with a crooked smile. "Molly Hooper," he pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist, "you leave me utterly and completely speechless."

"Well, it's not everyday someone breaks into your flat and falls asleep in your bed," she tried for some humor, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smile.

"We really need to talk about your security system," he put her hand down gently on the bed, as if it was the most fragile thing in the world. He stood up, still wearing only his underwear, and walked around the bed.

"Well, you're Sherlock Holmes. I mean, it would be unfair to judge the security of my building against your abilities," she watched as stood in front of her, her mouth suddenly dry. She tried not to trace the breadth of his shoulders with her eyes, trace the muscles in his chest and abs, the shockingly dark colored dusting of hair that ended in an enticing trail just beneath the waistband of his boxers.

"Still," he held his out hand out to her, lifting her to her feet, "we will need to make some adjustments."

"We?" she was shaking as he cupped her face in his hands, his eyes seemed to be absorbing every detail of her face, his thumb tracing her jaw, now her cheeks.

"'I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir, because I'm not myself, you see,'" he quoted with a smile, pulling Molly close enough now that his chest was touching hers, warming her, boiling her alive.

She laughed abruptly, "that makes me the caterpillar?" she asked tentatively holding on to his sides, his skin soft and warm there on his hipbones.

"No Molly," he whispered, "you've turned into such a beautiful butterfly," and his lips touched hers, his tongue tentatively tracing her lips until she opened to him. But he pulled away quickly, far too quickly, leaving her slightly dazed as he pressed his forehead to hers. "I can't…I can't seem to find the words to…explain what happened yesterday. But I need you to know that I wasn't playing games with you. I would never do that," he swallowed hard, pulling her body even closer to his.

"I know," she told him, bringing her hands to grip his wrists now, feeling the muscles there as he stroked her face, "you'll tell me when you're ready."

He kissed her again then, slowly and possessively, as if he was marking her as his own. She moaned into his mouth, couldn't help herself as all thought left her body. The world seemed recede into nothingness as Sherlocked kissed her breath into his lungs, as he stroked her cheeks while he licked the inside of her mouth, as she moved her hands to stroke his back.

Sherlocked pulled away to whisper against her lips, "I don't deserve you Molly, and I never will, but I'm willing to try to be worthy of you."

Review, recommend!


	2. PSA

Quick PSA:

Everyone's response to "Come Into My Sleep" has been so sweet and overwhelmingly positive. I keep receiving messages from people asking if there's more…

Come Into My Sleep is extremely special to me and it was meant to be a one shot. However, there is an ongoing fiction that I've been working on that is essentially Sherlock and Molly after this night.

It's called "Her Midnight Man" and you should find it through my profile!

Thanks!

-Mav.


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